These paintings came from shock. Are they finished - and are they SciArt? I’m not sure, but here’s a little about where they came from. They are paintings I produced in response to the experience of being diagnosed with type 1 diabetes - attempting to express the cognitive breath of the announcement, and the biological and bodily impact in terms of ritual and process.

So, type 1 occurs when the immune system attacks the insulin-producing beta cells in the pancreas. This means the carbs in food don’t get broken down, and rather just shoot straight through - which was one of the symptoms that the Doctor picked up on. The other was thirst. All the time - for sugary drinks especially, which would then go straight through again. It’s unusual to be diagnosed with type 1 at my age (41 *sigh). For me the paintings attempt to articulate the mental prodding, poking and gymnastics of the situation. There’s a fair amount of self-reproach, at least until you better understand what has happened. When diagnosed you get a fair amount of kit - injection pens, needle nibs, blood testers, test strips and lancets, plus diaries, diet books and generally a lot of information. But fundamentally your relationship with your body breaks down. My blood can be up or down - both of which are bad and need to be controlled - with either insulin or sugar - meaning I feel a little like Alice in Wonderland eating and drinking till she's exactly the right size. You begin to distrust your own sensations - and you wonder whether you feel what you think, or think what you feel… stuff which I think may be a part of where I go in this option.

I had some great feedback from my group about the potential to use the idea of the fourth piece (the glasses - when your body readjusts its blood sugar vision can alter temporarily - but significantly), and to immerse the viewer in the experience using some kind of 3D/ beer goggles/stereoscopy technique to observe the other paintings - or a wider exhibition/installation. Feedback that made me wonder about how far SciArt/ArtSci needs or is interested in interaction with the viewer/audience?

My notes show my doodles and research looking at the biology of diabetes - looking at the shape and patterning of the pancreas and the pro-insulin cell.

Assorted ramblings and a thumb. (page from my sketchbook)

For some reason exploring this physicality (which I’ve never bothered with in the past) made me begin to think of ideas for installations and interactive pieces: blood dripping onto sugar (or vice-versa - using syrup); completing a circuit to light up a pancreas using a injection pen within a florescent light structure; and generally finding ways to whizz-up food - looking at breaking it down which used to be done in the body. Here, if not budget exploding logistical and ethical nightmare installations, are a least the germs of metaphors that could serve illustration well.

Science [fiction], exposition, how things work, moving pictures, illustrated moments from science history - these are all the thoughts that follow my decision to try SciArt, as I sit and wonder where Illustration fits in this brave new world (my appologies to Huxley, and Shakespeare) Satisfied I will find someway to interact I make my way over to ‘The Shed’.

The Shed is a bit scruffy from the outside. It’s doing it’s best to live up to it’s name. Moving through from the reception you follow corridors that echo school-days - slated floors and dim walls mired in shade that branch out into high ceilings, white-walls and mezzanine layers. The whiteness screams test-tubes and bunsen burners as I walk in with my preconceptions held out to stop me from falling. I take a seat in what at first is very functional space. Taking out my sketch pad I find myself looking upwards, and already the set designer in me is working: I take note of the levels - balconies and alcoves, the potential of pillars, the flexible chairs and tables, and the access to water and technology. There are multiple entrances, strip lights and glass. Electric sockets dangle tantalisingly on sprung wires - reminiscent of robots on a production line (or maybe the harvesting machines from The Matrix?), and there is a sense of things to be created.

We are invited to consider the name - SciArt. It is a nomenclature that is contested - with a seemingly science bias, so the alternative seems to be ArtSci. The suggestion being that here we have a form or discipline that comes from the crashing together of approaches (and that Science in particular loses something from the process). The reality seems to be that the two way name is symbolic of a two way process - a methodololgy that springs from and seeks inspiration in the other. Art and Science both seeking to answer questions, with different methods and narratives, and both finding in the other ways to critique notions of what they are.

In a sense then my first impression of SciArt/ArtSci is one of creative disruption, finding the explosion in the atom if you like… (sorry).

"It's alive!!" (page from my sketch book)

So… Sci Art… Art Sci… or ‘Cartis' - which is the nearest I could get to an anagram that combines the two, and made me think of a warped, or drunk, form of ‘Catharsis' [‘Cart’is'] - the release of feeling through an audiences' investment in a performance. In a sense it may be that this points to the idea of SciArt as an arena where we can connect our understanding of the world and universe with our experience of being in it... warped because I imagine there will be an explosion at some point.

What is it though? How do you do it? And how do I know if it's any good?

I don’t think I can pretend to answer these questions yet - maybe not ever. I can say I’m involved in it now, and the search for a definition is ongoing.

The lecture theatre used to be a cinema - maybe still is? We go down stairs, and thru the underbelly of the building. We’re all thinking what it is we’re going to chuse (sic)? And talking like we know what it is we’re chusing (sic) between. Maybe its the coffee talking, but I’ve already picked my option - but I’m thinking I maybe wanna change to something else that I think I know about?

We cram into the seats of noir, and hunch together. Eyes skirting around to see what everyone else has, to see who’s there - looking for some clue as to what to do next. The presentations begin - but strangely there is no dimming of the lights.

Options step forward, each doing its dance - caught up in the academic hustle. Lights blink on and off in my head - like a moth I follow each one till it burns.

More coffee later, and getting to the end my brain is following pathways I used to travel on. Finally I see what might be a cul-de-sac, or might be a short-cut - but it’s definitely somewhere I haven’t been before.

“I’m not sure - do you think…?” I ask a stupid question, and taste the answer on the syllables as they leave my mouth…

Waking up is never fun. The slow creaking of gears stiring themselves into action - trying to pin down the events of the day so they can be recognised, compartmentalised - tamed.

For me making real coffee has always been part of this ritual, with the mechanics of preparing the coffee, the smell wafting through the room, and the 'gold-blend' sounds speaking to my inner engine. For most of my life the rhythm of the day has been determined by a daily pattern: start times, breaks, transport - all these things which run to my own little timetable, with me as the guard tweaking and adapting to hiccups in the road; a sense of consistency which the chaos wraps around.

So I'm struggling a little bit at the moment. Don't get me wrong - I'm massively excited with the new course, new hopes and opportunities to explore the way I produce art and ideas. But along with all that comes a need to grasp at everything I can, which means flexibility, spontaneity and being able to remember what to pack each day.

"Where next?!"

The thing is along with all that I have type 1 diabetes - and it's new (which is weird in itself), so I'm trying to get my head around it a bit. The way it's working out for me is that I need to work out the carbohydrates in each meal and calculate how much insulin I need to inject; the gist of which means I need to do a lot more maths! Now I don't have to plan each and every meal way ahead - but in order to try and get it right I prefer to in general - as that way I don't mess up the sums. It's not the injections that bother me, it's the additional planning - things I need to take like sugar tablets and biscuits to keep my levels right. Trying to see if my body is giving any hints about what I need to do next (generally not so much!), testing to see how I'm doing, and making sure I have all the stuff I need to make my day as spontaneous as possible.

This is on some level what being an adult actually means - thinking things out, making plans, having contingencies, so I get that there is an element of throwing my toys out of the Pram here. And I want to do this with my life - I want it to be more free flowing; but for that to happen I have to install the systems, implement the rigidity - have my own level of oversight - I am now my own corporate structure - and I have a sneaking feeling I may not be very good at it.

"Um... I'll be in here."

I guess age doesn't help either, but I find the day begins with a series of doubts - checks to see what I have/haven't done; regular lists are made (and ticking them off is very good - it means I've achieved for the day); journeys often start with patting pockets, pausing in the street, returning to check - and as a result being very early is becoming a necessity (I'll hold my hands up here - I've always had this need, and as a result have honed hanging around to an art form).

A new course - with new challenges , a new house, living with diabetes - my life is complexity at the moment. But I'm lucky - I have a wonderful wife. She fears change - but has embraced it, is warm, generous, stronger than she knows - and as a scared as I am. We're working it out together - something that is priceless.

I write this over an espresso - part of my morning ritual, as I get my head into the day. Taking the time to think lets flow thoughts and feelings that were knotted together into mishappen monoliths. Narratives, journeys that need to be taken - these are all part of the planning process too; maybe I need to address the forms of organisation I put in place, so I can enjoy the ride.

This post germinated from an assignment that didn’t fall as planned - a diary of my initial encounters with my MA in Illustration. A new course, a new home, and the settling of a direction that’s been on the cards for a while.

"Evolution of purpose(ish)."

The idea was a series of posts - and I found myself both excited and overwhelmed by the myriad of expression - the plethora of media that began to, frankly, shred my head. And, as I was getting the ideas under control, the impact of time, technology and seeing what others had done forced a change in plans. Still - the ideas are there. My blog is chronically overdue, and there’s gotta be something that will come out of this other stuff - right?

So a diary? By it’s nature a diary is a work in progress - ongoing, and something that really needs about four decades worth of snippets to put into context. This I don’t have. Rather, I guess, this (and possibly subsequent posts) composes snapshots of a narrative, charting the move to the here, and the now. The hustle, the settle-in, the nick and the naks.

"Under control (gulp)"

But each moment contains within a series of befores and whys - of what-ifs and thank G(g)ods: a life-change, a wake-up, an Ohshitohshitohshit: a process - a roll of the dice.

So there’s the practical - boxes and flat-packs, money and houses; the physical - lifting, sleeping - moving and stopping; places and faces; swirl and still; the predictable - the regulated - queues and log-ins and ons; the tremors and gasps - the changes, reactions and adaptions. Maybe even some philosophy will eek its way out of the words and pictures that scatter this process?

Since my last post I find myself in a new place - physically, geographically, professionally and intellectually. In a nutshell - I’ve left my job (yay), been diagnosed with Type 1 Diabetes, moved house and begun the above mentioned MA - so diary entries about my first week have a lot of context.

"Caption: Um... Diagnosis?"

This has all been exacerbated by the strange slow-sprint of the summer - which has gone by like the torturous wait before the snap of an elastic band. An uphill run followed by a stumble and prolonged roly-poly to the bottom. House - sold, packed - boxes-dump-bags-tip-boxes-market-tip-van-pizza-boxes-van-upstairs-downstairs-garage-tip-boxes-IKEA-boxes-instructions-boxes-empty!

"Packing"

In amongst has been diagnosis, saying goodbye, a drugs trial, a new course, testing, excitement and nostalgia. It's been a trip.

"Manchester City Hall"

To clear my head I roam the city. I want to aclimatise - to pin down geography and find a relationship to the streets and buildings around me: sketching here, reading there.

"Manchester Cathedral"

Slowy, through the surgical drip of city and text, ideas and focus sprout shoots. The new city - at first incomprehensible, full of ways and wynds - different parallels of horizontal and vertical - textures new and familiar.

"John Rylands Library"

With each step and stroke of pen the overwhelming becomes tangible - the taste forming in the eye and brain. And so I start to feel at home - in a new home. Start to re-find the energy and hope to take the step forward - to feel deserving of my chance. Another breath, another blink to see the not just the potholes, but where the road forks, and where it may - just - lead.

The sun shines - glorious light spreads like butter over the day. The storm clouds have cleared for a moment leaving the crackle of electricity in the atmosphere. In time they will return. I reach out for your hand, curling your fingers in mine, and squeeze.

For a moment there is warmth, the air is clear and a pause surrounds us. Outside is fear. I look in your eyes and see myself looking back. I am scared. We are scared - change is happening, the world shifting beneath our feet. We must jump, dive or skip - but we must move, and we don't know where to land; or even if we will.

I squeeze harder - and I feel you squeezing back. Whether of our making, or of others, the unknown charges towards us, and gathers speed as it moves. I blink back tears - hiding my fear in anger, and looking around through goldfish eyes. We snap, then hug, finding in each other the strength to take the next step.

"We force ourselves to feel the dread of children confused by what they see. We listen to a silent cry."

These word from Obama, spoken in Hiroshima, have stuck with me - an image startlingly evocative that gathers together feelings into forms. There is a cynicism that dances around me when I place the words into context - an American President standing over the graves of the horror of nuclear weapons. But there is always, and always context. There is the historical and the political that layer meanings - almost with the slap-dash of another layer of paint.

Hiroshima aftermath

I recognise the world. For a moment though I want to zoom in. To take stock of the pause that the words bring.

I recognise the power of words - an emotional intersection I wish to grasp. From the mouths of babes and speech writers...

Searching for meaning

The images - "the dread of confused children" and "we listen to a silent cry" form pictures - crystallising feelings as I sketch, words rising out of the lines to try and comprehend.

They come baring paradox... As a child - as an adult I find myself dumbfounded - outside of the joke, the hidden meaning - the comparison between nuclear devastation and childish incoherence for a second - a nano second, makes sense. And really in the context of Armageddon how else can you respond? The "dread" is all too short.

I am on Munch's bridge - witnessing the silent scream; a psychological release, a moment from Brecht where the force of internal pain is contrasted with a physical futility that says all there is to say about the frustration and powerlessness of humanity in the face of the machinery, the industry of war. But this is a cry - an act more plaintive - that echoes with anguish.

...

So whilst Brecht, Marx and all interpreters of the passage of human progress would demand me to contextualise the irony of the speech, I find myself - self-indulgently perhaps - drawn to the poetry. Maybe because as an individual I cannot comprehend how 'sorry' can begin to walk back history - can undo the complexity of all the layers of history - of blame and counter-blame? Against this vision of death and destruction can 'sorry' help us to understand? Do the words of later generations take back what is done? Would we want them to?

The horror and threat of the nuclear footprint I have lived with since childhood; and over time the point is that there is no point. Commemorations, reparations, resignations... The need to interpret - to touch our powerlessness, to delve into futility is the only way I can fathom. So if the images speak to me - I think I'll listen.

Night streaks - moments of time caught between light, flash across puddles, and up across windows disappearing up to the cloud-strune sky. The water lies sporadically - residue from a season searching for identity.

I'm walking - my mind slowly building its igloo of pace and flow; distanced from what's next. Around neon flares, headlights chatter as ice forms in the air. I follow my shadow towards the vanishing point - cold stinging as glacial paths sculpt out my face; I feel the weathering of my features, the erosion of the years - and the building of character that I was always warned about.

But the cold, the effort - as I make my way onward - heat steaming from within my coat, scarf and hat, seem to justify my sense of age - of having lived (a bit). I watch the darkness dance across the hordings - the signs, the eaterees and take-outs - skipping Loki-like through cars and in and out of off-liscences.

The trance flickers - I stop to look around, blinking as I process where I am - letting stillness sink in for a breath. There it is - the pub, and my shadow winks: "Go in - take the weight off your feet, warm those bones." "Steady on," I think, "I've lived 'a bit' remember!" But my petulance fades with thoughts of warmth, the velvet of a beer and the chance to awake - seeing who and what is around... and who knows - maybe a dram. My pen ictches.

Atmosphere is an enigma. It creeps upon you and dances with your thoughts - at times leading and capering, at times hiding - using guerrilla tactics to taunt and undermine what it was you knew. The mornings that bite with cold - dusting castor sugar over the world. The fogs that make even the most simple street a maze of indecision. The speckled shadows that suggest all is not as it seems.

This capacity of light and haze to transform place and space has always fascinated me. Stages where the nooks and crannies of set become sculptures that envelop, cocoon and create characters - shifting in time and geography through the touch and hue of light and shadow.

This is what I look for in composition - the making strange of what I expected. A passing stranger, the oddness of a colour, layers of shade - taking a view I know, adding the dramatic - the sense of the undertow, the element of surprise.

My last work turned out to be a drawing. The image had been lying among doodles and photos taken at the Durham Lumiere. This is an exhibition that calls out to my fascinations. The works are outside - transforming the idea of spaces into new places. Recapturing, reforming the conventions of what is expected - juxtaposing the medieval streets with the art of light and projection - a whale in the river, a wave of bottles or the cosmos forming on the facade of a Cathedral. The humour of a cloud of lightbulbs - ideas blinking in the night, or the complex simplicity of a prism across the water.

Looking through my notes I saw my image - taken from The Mist - an installation so simple, but so evocative. The use of dry-ice to cling to the surface of river and bank, and the fluctuations of the light across its clouds. A techique that has always had the power to transport me from now to the moment.

The pencil begins: soft glances on the paper - brushing shape and shade. Quicker movements start to pull out lines of architecture and forrest. Then more confident - more defined, the pencil etches out the planes of shade - spidering marks of reflection and foreground flora - to pick out perspective. Deeper into the darkness the blocks of existence start to form - before the relief of the rubber arrives to pick out the highlights - the moment the light frames the scene.

And there it ends. Contrast and composition are done - rough edges lead us to the monument, and darkness leads to the light. More could be done, the page could be filled, but that would still the frame, and then the memory would breathe its last.